Retribution
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: A sequel to "The Window". Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle have been through a lot in the past couple years, but seem to have finally found peace. The past, however, is about to haunt them in several different ways, threatening their happiness and the life they built together, including their child. Chapter 6: a brief interlude.
1. Prologue

_Last year I had the pleasure of writing a story called "The Window", published here in . I also had the honor of receiving great feedback, from generous and faithful readers that followed the story from the start, and encouraged me in that journey of twenty-something chapters._

_I'm now trying to do something I never did before: a sequel. I've written a spin-off before, and I like to connect my stories, when possible, but I never tried a sequel before. However, as "The Window" was so fun to write, and so many strings were left to be explored, I decided to give it a shot._

_It's in no way necessary that you read the first story to follow this one, or understand it. I think it will be more enjoyable for those that did read it, or are willing to, but I'll do my best to make this as accessible as any story should._

_Finally, I decided to publish this first chapter as prologue. The purpose is to give you guys just a small hint of what's going on in our favorite characters lives at this moment. More to come. For now, just check this out and tell me what you think – I would love to hear it._

_And here's to new beginnings!_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

As usual, Selina arrived at the park a few minutes after 4 P.M..

She parked the car near the playground, her Mercedes-Benz M-Class lined up with all the other SUVs that were already there. The irony of her driving a SUV was not lost in her: she had hated it, at first. Still, in Gotham's Palisades, a wealthy neighborhood of perfectly suburban gothamite families, the choice seemed appropriate. If she wanted to blend in when she was out with Henry, that included the obvious things, like cars and clothes, even the diaper bag and the stroller. _It's a disguise_, she would tell herself, back when she first took the baby for a walk in Kane Park, the local meeting point for stay-at-home mothers and their offspring. Putting on an outfit, pretending to be someone else, those were things she was used to, way before Henry. Catwoman hadn't been the first mask she ever wore, and she never actually believed it would be the last.

If there was something in the situation that amazed her, however, was the fact that she had gotten too comfortable in the role of motherhood.

How long since she had put on her Catwoman gear and walked over Gotham's rooftops? A year? More? She didn't exactly know, what was amazing in itself – she always thought that it would be impossible for her to stay away from the cowl and whip, and believed she would be counting the days if she ever did. Not long ago, she would think about herself as Catwoman _first_, then Selina Kyle. Her life, her _real_ life, was lived on Gotham's skyline, not on the ground. All that defined her was there, in the night, connected to her claws and dark outfit, and her days were spent in bed, catching up with her sleep, or planning her nightly business. She never thought that, one day, all that mattered would be a chubby little creature, now smiling at her from his carseat behind her.

"Hey, sweetie", she told the boy. "I'll take you out in a second, okay?"

"Out, mommy!" He stretched his arms and vainly struggled out of the chair, his little legs kicking the air as he anxiously tried to release the belt that kept him strapped on his seat. "Out! 'Enrry want _out_!"

She smiled – it was impossible not to, she had recently concluded. Henry would be two years-old in less than a month, and was the most amazing little person: funny, talkative, smart. Selina could spend her entire day around him, and it would be an eventful and adventurous day, no doubt. Her old Catwoman self would have never believe it, of course, that being a mom could be just as fulfilling as being a thief-slash-vigilant. As fulfilling and, frankly, often more demanding.

"Hang on, buddy", she gently asked, removing her own seatbelt and stepping out of the car. As she opened the back door, the boy insisted:

"'Urry up, mommy!"

Again Selina smiled, to no one but herself – Henry had managed to release one of his arms from the belt, and frowned in impatience on his seat. Like that, despite his babyish features and childish manners, he displayed a tiny and perfect replica of his father's most earnest expression.

"Okay, okay… we're set", she said, taking the diaper bag and finally reaching to free the child from the torture of his safety straps.

"Playground!" Henry's annoyed look was gone in a second, the boy clapping his hands as he caught sight of the park he and Selina would visit on regular basis. "Put down, mommy! Put Enrry down!"

She obeyed him, though firmly grabbing the toddler's wrist. "No running until we get to the sidewalk, baby."

The boy complied, his small hand tight around Selina's fingers. "I hold hands, mommy."

"Yes, baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you?"

Henry smiled broadly, his satisfaction about himself obvious in his candid expression. "Well done, Enrry", he self-complimented.

Selina laughed. "That's right, baby. Well done."

As they reached the paved sidewalk, Selina allowed Henry to let go of her hand, the boy immediately running to the grass that stretched along a gentle elevation to the closest playground, their usual destination in their afternoon outings. The place was too familiar, both to Selina and her child; so much so that, as they approached, several other parents and children greeted them on first name basis. Even though attentively following her son's moves – Henry had already reached the swings, and struggled to lift his small body and place himself on one of those -, she answered every wave and hello with a gentle smile, or a perceptible head gesture. It would be a stretch to say she was friends with those people, but they met on regular basis, and knew each other's children, their names, their habits. More than once Henry had been saved from an ugly fall by the hands of another parent, or had been pushed on one of the swings by the mother of father of the child that was sat next to him. Most adults that were in the park that afternoon knew that Henry loved grapes, hated Cheerios, and had a strange and dangerous attraction to climb to high places. People would keep an eye on her kid if she had to take a phone call, and the day Henry had hit his forehead when he tripped, Selina had seen herself surrounded by people offering help and ice, their faces showing honest concern for her child, and a couple moms made her give her phone number to them so they could call later to know how Henry was doing – which they did.

Small gestures of kindness, gratuitous moments of consideration as the one she now witnessed: before she could reach Henry and help him into the swing, someone else had done it.

"Calm down, pal", said the women, holding Henry's arm and setting him straight on the swing. Selina knew her as Peyton, and also knew she had two little girls: one was just about Henry's age, and the other was two years older. "Take it easy, or you're going to fall…"

"Thanks, Peyton", Selina said, smiling as she took her place behind her son and started to push him.

The woman returned her smile.

"No problem. I know how hard it is to keep up with their pace… my youngest makes me run around the house the entire day after her, I can barely find the time to go to the bathroom."

"What an exercise, right?" Selina joked.

"Tell me about it", the woman shrugged. "My husband works long hours, and I hardly get any help with the kids."

"Oh", was Selina's quiet reply. She didn't know Peyton too well, but had heard enough pieces of random conversations to know the woman was a typical example of the kind of mom that populated Kane Park's playgrounds. Like most mothers totting around their children at that very moment, Peyton was married to a wealthy husband – a doctor, in that particular case, if Selina wasn't mistaken -, and had at her disposal a full time nanny and a maid. Still, Peyton seemed to keep herself pretty busy with her children, always taking her little girls to classes and different activities, and it was unusual to see her kids in the sole company of their nanny. Most afternoons, Peyton would take the girls to the playground by herself – an exception was that very day: not far from them, Peyton's oldest daughter played with other kids under the attentive look of her nanny.

Peyton kept talking, her speech made in a distracted, aloof tone, though the topic was so in tune with Selina's feelings that she wondered if the woman had noticed something in her expression that denounced her line of thought:

"I spend way too much by having a babysitter almost every single day, but I don't think I could manage if I didn't have Sasha over there to help. It's a luxury, sure, but it goes a long way to help me keep my sanity…"

Selina smiled, unsure about how answer that. As a girl that had grew up in poverty, she had admittedly spent the last year and a half of her life both amazed and disgusted by the eccentricities the wealthy people of Palisades displayed. Not long ago, Peyton's words would have offended her – how could someone claim that a nanny was a necessity? And how could a mother complain about taking care of her own children? Healthy, beautiful, smart children, mind you, that seemed peaceful and happy?

And although she couldn't help the fact that those questions surfaced in her mind even now, she was also a different woman these days; she was a mother too, and no stranger to the fact that raising a kid, even if a deeply loved and wanted child, could be challenging. She had also been living in a very different environment than the one she had lived in her childhood – and was glad that her son didn't have to go through all _she_ had been through during those first few years of her life. She was raising her son in the best neighborhood, among the most privileged children in Gotham City… and that didn't bother her as much as it once did.

For a while there, when she had seen herself living in a mansion, having a butler serving her breakfast – even if Alfred wasn't _just_ a butler, even if Alfred was more _disguised_ as a butler than actually one -, she had worried. She had worried that Henry was growing up in a world that had little to do with the _actual_ world outside. She worried that her son would think that having things, having _everything_, was normal; or that he would be too comfortable with the extravagant way of life money could provide, a boy spoiled and snobbish.

But then again, she wasn't that much of a hypocrite that she couldn't see how her life as Catwoman wasn't exactly the most usual, down-to-earth lifestyle. It didn't take long for her to realize that being rich wouldn't be as important, as meaningful in Henry's life as, say, being Batman's son. Any danger that the excess of wealth could present was dwarfed by the idiosyncrasies of a life as the child of a masked vigilante and a former masked thief.

Besides, there was Bruce; Batman himself. One of the Forbes 500, and what had that man chosen to become? Spoiled and snobbish wasn't exactly how Selina would describe him.

"Don't you feel exhausted, sometimes?" Peyton was asking Selina, one hand pushing her child on the swing next to Henry's, an inquisitive expression in her jovial, carefully cared features. No doubt she was that kind of woman, that wouldn't leave her home without a reasonable make-up session, and that had an appointment at one of Palisade's expensive hairdresser every week. There was barely a single hair string out of place in her immaculate blonde locks.

"Well, of course", Selina admitted. "Sometimes."

"You don't seem to have much help yourself. I mean, from Henry's father…"

That was the usual way other parents in the playground had of asking Selina what they _really_ wanted to know: who was Henry's father. She had never let escape a hint, but there was no need. People knew she wasn't one of _them_, one of the old families' heirs, or even new money that every now and then made their way to the top. She was just a random woman, that did everything right: there was nothing in Selina that, among them, would make her stand out. But it was obvious that she didn't belong, not in the strictest sense, because no one knew where she had came from.

There wasn't much she could do to avoid the gossip and the speculation, and she honestly didn't care. Gossip and speculation would be a lot worst if they knew who Henry's dad was. But at the Palisades, at least, most people feared paparazzi and gossip columns, and did the best they could to not attract attention, reason that made Kane Park the best place to take Henry for outside adventures and playdates. Still, she had to be careful; always very careful about her words.

"Taking Henry out to play in the playground is _my_ thing", Selina answered in simplicity.

Peyton smiled, though obviously a little embarrassed.

"Oh. Right, okay. It's a mother-son kind of thing."

"Yeah", Selina smiled back, "and I wouldn't have it any other way."


	2. Hopes

Bruce stared at the dark monitor ahead of him, arms crossed as he considered his choices. For a minute or two, he remained immobile; eyes watching his own image reflected on the dead screen in front of him. Then, with a deep, prolonged sigh, he leaned slightly ahead and pressed a button on the keyboard.

Immediately, the monitor lightened up. It showed a familiar scenario: the cave. The very place he was now, though slightly different – it was the cave as it had been three years ago, before the recent changes and upgraded equipment he had recently installed. Despite minor details, however, it was the same place; the most remarkable change, in fact, was about the person that stood in front of the camera, staring gravely at it as he prepared to speak.

Damian.

In the screen, the boy breathed heavily and said, his youthful voice a whisper that came out hesitantly:

"Father", he said, a momentous intonation in the word.

Bruce pressed his lips together, eyes on his son – his dead, lost son. Moving on his chair, he approached his face to the monitor. There, Damian talked; no masks, no uniform. His dark-blue eyes looking straight at the camera, and he could easily have been looking at his father as he spoke. The same expression, the usual tone. So close. So… real.

"If you are watching this, father", the boy proceeded, "it's because I'm gone."

He shook his head in denial, eyes lowering to the ground, then back to stare at the camera.

"I'm sorry, father. I'm sorry. If I'm dead, it's because I failed you. I wasn't the good soldier you needed me to be."

Bruce turned his gaze from the monitor, a hand rubbing his eyes.

"I hope you can forgive me, father. And I hope that you can, somehow, avenge my death…"

A beeping noise, and the film froze on screen. On the right corner of the monitor, a message accused an incoming call on hold, directly from the Justice League's Watchtower.

After taking a moment to recompose himself, Bruce used the computer's voice command:

"Answer call."

The screen was taken by another familiar face, who frowned in impatience:

"Bruce? Are you there?"

"Hello, Victor", he greeted. "How are you?"

Victor Stone, widely known as the superhero Cyborg. A member of the Justice League and, in many ways, a friend.

"All right", the young man quickly answered. "Busy, as usual. And you? Can we talk?" He took a moment before proceeding. "Are _you_ okay? You look…"

"I'm fine."

Cyborg's glance showed he wasn't convinced, and noticeably aggravated by Bruce's denial of what was so evident. Still, he didn't insist; he probably knew too well that there was no point.

"Anyway…", he continued. "I have information about that research you programmed in our database."

"You do?" Bruce leaned back on his chair, his right hand on his chin.

"Yes. It seems another subject has been identified…"

"Subject?"

Victor nodded. "A child. Showing the symptoms you were looking for. Fits the profile perfectly."

"Where?" The question came out in a hoarse, serious tone.

"Seattle. Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital, actually. The child has been admitted half an hour ago."

Standing up from his seat, Bruce turned his attention to the computer's keyboard. He typed furiously, while still talking to Cyborg.

"I need you to do the research, Victor. Background, family, places the child visited or people he or she has been around in the last few days."

"It's a _she_, actually", Cyborg added. "Leah Wallace. Two years old."

His fingers stopped moving on the keyboard. _Two years old._ Two. Like Henry… his son too was about to turn two.

"Don't", he heard Victor saying.

He gazed briefly at the screen, than returning to his work on the computer. "I didn't say anything."

"But you were thinking it. I know."

Bruce didn't answer. Cyborg insisted:

"That poor child in Seattle is not Henry, Bruce. Henry is _fine_. He's better than fine, actually. Your kid hasn't been sick ever since…"

"I _know_", he groaned. "I know."

Victor was right. His son was fine. Healthy. Perfect. Not a single disease, not even a cold; not in a while. Not since…

Not since he had almost died.

"You're right in trying to figure out what happened to Henry back then. Someone did _something_ to him, and it almost cost his life… but it's over now, Bruce."

"It's not over, Victor. Not yet. Not until I uncover the truth about what really happened."

There was moment of silence before Cyborg spoke again; when he did, it was in a collected, straightforward tone:

"I take you're going to Seattle."

"I am. I need you to work on that research, and to keep me informed."

"Always do."

"I'll try to get blood and tissue samples while I'm there."

"Good. I'll get in touch with STAR Labs to see if they can help us with it."

"Great. That's great, Victor."

"No problem." He turned his attention to something outside the screen's focus, most likely another monitor in the Watchtower. "Hm… there's something that requires my attention, Bruce. Gotta go."

"Alright. We'll keep in touch."

"Have a safe trip."

The monitor went dark, Bruce barely having time to wave a goodbye. Before he could turn back to the computer, though, a female, inquisitive voice sounded in the cave.

"Trip? Like… in an outside-of-Gotham mission?"

Selina was coming down the main stairs, reaching the lower level where Bruce now stood. She was dressed in casual clothes, and smiled furtively as she approached him.

"Hey", he greeted her, unwilling to elaborate on an answer to her question. In truth, she was not supposed to have heard about his travelling plans. Not like this, anyway. "Back from the park already?"

"It seems like that", she joked.

He allowed himself a half-smile. "Stupid question, hm?"

"You're never stupid", she said, joining him by the computer. "Just a bit silly sometimes."

Bruce placed a hand on her waist, then gently sliding it to her lower back as he pulled her close to him. "Did you guys have fun?" He asked, just as Selina rested her head on his chest.

"Oh, yeah. Lots of fun. Henry had so much fun that he fell asleep in the car when we drove back."

He chuckled quietly, lightly kissing her forehead. She looked up at his face, a concerned look in her eyes.

"Something wrong?"

The question was expected. Bruce knew he had been caught by surprise by her arrival – these days, Selina would rarely come down to the cave; it was more common for her to just wait for him upstairs, usually too busy taking care of Henry. He didn't have the time to prepare himself, or think of a reasonable excuse for him to go to Seattle. Truth was, he didn't want Selina to know about his investigation; last year, when Henry was seriously ill – and apparently the target of an intentional, vicious attack that almost took his life -, Selina had been consumed by a need for violence and retribution. She had been on the verge of actually _killing_ someone, and that had almost destroyed them.

Now, he dreaded the idea of making her go through it again. He knew she would want to pursue some sort of revenge again, and he wasn't sure he could stop her if she decided to go too far, cross the line of taking lives. It had taken a while for them to rebuild their relationship and trust each other, to finally believe that their son was safe – why ruin this with information that was so vague and yet to be proven as related to his investigations?

"Why do you ask?"

"You seem… worried." She frowned. "Is this about the trip Cyborg mentioned? Something related to the League…?"

"No, nothing like that." He smiled, as tenderly as he could. Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her on the lips – her soft, warm, desirable lips, that he could hardly resist. "It's a business trip, actually. WayneTech business."

She laughed. "You're kidding. You, going to a WayneTech meeting… and out of Gotham?"

"It's an important one."

"It must be", she said playfully, her head again on his chest, the gentle stroke of her fingers felt through his shirt – he had yet to change into his Batman suit. "Just don't stay away for too long, okay?"

"No more than a couple days", he whispered, his arms closing around her in an embrace. "I promise."

A promise he intended to keep, no doubt. These days, he just couldn't stand the idea of staying far from her arms – his true home.

* * *

Megan Wallace thought of himself as a good person; always had.

She was in her early thirties, but people usually thought she was younger. It was her smile, she thought. Her broad, spontaneous smile that usually made people around her mirror her laughs and joy. It had been like that with her husband, Daniel, who she had met in college. They had classes together in their first year at Washington University, and she had noticed him almost immediately: the serious, dedicated boy that always sat in the front row of chairs in every class. He wanted to be a lawyer, and didn't admit any distractions from his studies: no dates, no parties, no girlfriends – till that day he saw Megan laugh.

They had never let go of each other ever since.

Daniel did become a lawyer, years later. Megan herself majored in English, and she dedicated her first years after graduation to what she loved the most: writing. Her original plans had been the dashing career of an investigative journalist, much like the reporter she admired so much, one Lois Lane. But life has a way of changing plans, that was for sure: with Daniel in the picture, she couldn't bring herself to move to New York or Metropolis, like she had dreamed of ever since she was twelve. Instead, they got married. A small ceremony, just close friends and their parents – they didn't have much money back then, and Danny was about to start on his first job. No honeymoon for them.

There were no regrets, though. Their first apartment was small and old, but cozy. They were happy there for a while, but had to move out a year later, when their first kid, Paul, arrived. Megan became a stay-at-home mother, and Daniel got promotions at the office. When Leah, their youngest and third child was born, they had just bought the five bedrooms, six bathroom house in the suburbs that they had dreamed about for so long.

That was when their little family faced what had been, so far, their greatest challenge: Leah was diagnosed with a rare disease in her first few months of life. A debilitating, progressive kind of premature scleroses. The most optimistic doctors told them their baby girl wouldn't live more than a few years, if even that.

Megan's smile became a rare, unusual sight from then on.

She dedicated herself to Leah, and to find ways to help her little girl. As Daniel struggled to keep his job and help with the older boys, Megan spent most of her waking hours taking care of Leah and going to several doctors. She read medical papers, researched in libraries and the internet, called every pharmaceutical company or laboratory in the world in search for a new drug or treatment that could help her daughter. In her darkest moments, when the house was silent, the children slept, Daniel snored next to her, Megan would surrender to a silent cry. Hope would vanish from her heart, and she would wonder: why is this happening to me? Wasn't I good person? Did a fail someone? Caused harm to anyone? Didn't pray enough, or wasn't good enough? She was a good person, Daniel was a good man; Leah was just a little baby. They didn't _deserve_ that, she would tell the darkness of her bedroom. Not they.

Then, one day, the phone rang.

She had spent Leah's first year of life searching for help, and in vain; and then, suddenly, in a summer morning, all changed. Help came, much like it did when a flying superhero comes down from the sky and rescues randomly someone. In a simple call, her hope and joy was restored.

It was an out of town doctor, who was doing research for an experimental drug all over the country. He would come to Seattle once a month, inject Leah with his miracle drug, and be gone until the next month. It seemed too good to be true, but Megan thought that she had little to lose. She took the offer and enrolled her baby girl in the testing group. They met the doctor, one Thomas Wayne, who was so pleasant and polite, and so convincing. He promised them the world, talking about something that could not only improve Leah's condition: he promised a cure.

And no parent could resist that.

As part of the agreement, Megan and Daniel answered several questions, filled tons of forms, committed to constantly watch Leah for troubling side effects – but that never happened.

What did happen, though, was a wonderful thing: Leah got better. Much better. Mere days after her first shot she started to show signs of improvement. Within a month, the child that hadn't been able to even seat straight had managed to take her first step. In six weeks, Leah was saying her first words; in ten, all her tests and exams showed not simply progress: it showed perfection. Not only had Leah turned into a normal kid – she was _better_ than a normal kid.

And then, twelve weeks after Leah had started the treatment, something strange happened.

She was running after her brothers on the living room, chasing them in pure joy. Being younger and smaller, it was no surprise that the boys could easily outrun her, and the girl got upset. Trying to reach her brothers, she tripped and fell, hitting her head on the corner of a chair.

Her cry was sudden and loud, Megan running to the little girl and taking her in her arms as blood poured from her forehead. Worried, but still a seasoned, reasonable mother of three, she commanded Paul to go to the bathroom and fetch her a clean towel. She pressed it against Leah's skin, noticing the flow of blood slow; and then, as she removed the towel to check the wound on her daughter's forehead…

There was nothing.

Nothing. Not a scratch, a single mark. No sign she had been hurt at all.

She told Daniel all about it that very night, just as he arrived from work. He didn't dismiss her concerns; he actually told her that something similar had happened a few days before, when Leah stepped on a sharp object. She had gotten hurt, she even bled… but after Daniel cleaned her foot, he realized there were no cuts or scratches on the child's skin.

"Should we tell someone?", Daniel had asked.

Megan thought they should keep quiet. "Maybe it's a gift", she told Daniel. Maybe Leah had always been special – her disease just never allowed them to see it. Maybe, she privately wondered, it was a blessing.

And she believed that until the day Leah had her first seizure.

The worst, of course, was the fact that no one knew what was going on. First Leah's pediatrician, then the doctors in Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital, where she was admitted: they had no idea of what was happening to her daughter. Exams showed nothing strange, at first; and yet, the seizures kept coming, as well as the pain. So much pain.

That night Leah howled and scream, repeating_ mommy, hurts, mommy, hurts_… She shivered while in Megan arms, her eyes translating despair. And at that moment, as she looked into her daughter's hopeless eyes, Megan understood:

Leah would die.

Tears blurring her sight, her face wet and her hands trembling out of control, she managed to reach her bag; from there, she took her phone and a card – a simple paper card with nothing but a single phone number hand written in one of its sides. As her daughter cried and scream, she dialed the number that was in the card. It rang once, and it was answered by a male, deep voice:

"Hello?"

"Doctor Wayne?"

There was a moment of silence. Then:

"Yes?"

"This is Megan", she said, trying to project her voice over the sounds of Leah's screams. "Megan Wallace. Leah's mom. From Seattle…"

"Megan?" Again, silence. Seconds later, though, he spoke again: "Yes, of course. What can I do for you?"

Despite the strange behavior of the doctor, she was relieved to hear that the man was willing to help her, do _something_. Maybe, just maybe, Dr. Wayne would be able to help Leah. He was the most amazing physician she had ever met, and might have the answers they needed.

"Something is wrong with Leah… she's… she's really sick."

"Seizures?" There was no change, no surprise in his voice.

"Yes! Yes, seizures…! And…"

"Pain. Persistent pain."

Megan halted. It was her turn to stay in complete silence. Yes, he was right; he knew what was happening to her daughter, and wasn't surprised.

Because, maybe, he had been expecting that all along.

"You son of a bitch", she whispered, her voice an enraged hiss. "_You_ did this. You knew this would happen. You _killed_ her! You killed my daughter…!"

He hung up.

Megan dropped her phone, her fingers unable to keep their grasp around it. In her arms, Leah threw up; there was blood in her vomit.

"Oh, no! No, no, no…!"

That was it, Megan realized. The end. Leah was going to die.

What Megan Wallace didn't know, however, was that her daughter wouldn't be the only one to die that night.

* * *

The room was pleasant and bright, a truly comfortable place to be. Walls had tall bookcases, its shelves filled with several books and few decorative objects. On the floor, a large, ancient Persian rug, There was a large window, behind the wooden desk that was placed across the entrance door. Like everything else in that room, the desk was beautiful, expensive and unique. It had several documents and papers spread over it, the signs that someone was working hard, even at late hours. Handwritten notes and maps, pictures, numbers. In one of those papers, names were listed; a dozen or more. Most of those names were crossed, though, including its most recent addition: Leah Wallace.

The man stood by the window. He was tall and slender, though he had large shoulders and was clearly in good shape. His hair had an extraordinary shade of reddish-brown, and was thick and neat. He had perfectly trimmed sideburns, though the rest of his face was immaculately shaved. His clothes were plain – nothing but a tailored pair of dark pants and a white, long-sleeved shirt. They fit him perfectly, however, making the man look elegant and showing off, though in a circumspect manner, his wealth and sophistication.

All about the man was pleasant, or should be; the exception would be, of course, his eyes. They were of a pale blue that was remarkable and rare. Even framed by sharp, substantial eyebrows, they were noticeable and memorable, and gave the man's gaze an extraordinary coldness. In fact, he was often described as contemptuous, unless he made an effort to be nice.

But he was good in that – pretending to be nice. He had done it all his life, and it usually came to him so easily, that act, that it was almost a natural instinct. Still, there was no mistake: if given a moment to exam his personal feelings, his deep desires, his most intimate wishes, well, than he could be hardly described as "nice".

He was not nice. He was a man in a mission, a very special one, and he would not rest until he was done. Truly, completely, definitely done.

Walking to his desk, the man took a cell phone. Not his regular phone – the secret one. The one he rarely used.

"It happened again", he told the person that answered the phone. "This time, we need one of those cleaning jobs."

He waited in silence as the person said something. Seconds later, he proceeded:

"No, it didn't work", he patiently explained. And then: "It must be done. A full cleaning. No loose strings, we can't afford to let them talk."

One more moment of silence. He listened and shook his head, answering firmly:

"Yes, all the kids. Not just the subject child, but _all_ of them." He smiled cruelly. "Orphans cultivate traumas… and we don't need another damaged kid deciding to grow up into a costumed crime fighter."

With that, he turned off the phone, eyes staring at the night outside his window; he sighed – once again with the feeling of a job well done.


	3. Family legacies

_Hello to you guys!_

_This took a while – not because it wasn't written and done, but because I simply didn't have the time to make myself seat and briefly check the spelling and correct a few mistakes. I hope that this month and the next can be more peaceful, and I should be able to write and publish more._

_Anyway, I hope you can enjoy this chapter. I'm happy to tell you that I'm bringing a few more known characters from DC Universe to this story, and more will follow. Although this is mainly a Batman story, I just absolutely love writing guys like Amanda Waller, Steve Trevor, Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash and many other characters. Don't know if they will all have big moments in this, but I intend to show that Batman is part of a whole network of superpowered creatures, and his decisions and life are influenced by them. Also, let's not forget the villains. A well-written villain is the dream of any writer, and I will pursue it. _

_I wish to thank all of you that gave me feedback for the first few chapters; so encouraging, and so helpful. Please, keep doing it if you can. I hope you, dear reader, enjoy this chapter, and can keep reading this. It's an honor, always, to have you reading my misplaced words. _

_Thank you very much!_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

_**Seattle**_

It was almost morning when Oliver Queen, a.k.a. Green Arrow, returned to his main safe-house.

He had been through a long, tough night: instead of his usual nocturnal activities of fighting crime, he had been faced with a far more challenging and harder task. It started around midnight, when he first noticed an increasing number of distress calls going through the emergency lines. It was not clear what they were about: a fire, maybe even an explosion, certainly a very serious situation. But what really caught Oliver's attention, though, was _where_ the fire was – Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital.

It was a special place to him. The hospital had been one of the many institutions that his mother had helped with her charity funds, and one of her most successful accomplishments. A decade ago, not long after receiving the news that her husband and her son were killed in a boat accident, Moira Queen had searched and found purpose in her life by dedicating herself and all she had to help others. And in that life-long mission, she had taken a small, old hospital, and, with money and lots of work, turned it into a center of excellence. He remembered how proud his mother looked when she talked about the Memorial Hospital, and all they had achieved. Even when she got sick, _really_ sick, she still insisted on going to board meetings and funding events, and made sure that part of her personal wealth, after her death, was donated to the hospital. No wonder the place was named after her.

That was why he immediately took interest in the emergency calls; he thought that he would be able to help, perhaps rescuing people from the building, or even doing something to contain the fire – he did have a few extinguishing tricky arrows. He had no idea, not the slightest idea, that his presence would be, in most part, useless.

The thing was, he realized as he arrived at the hospital's grounds, there was nothing to be saved. The whole hospital, the entire building… it had been destroyed.

Survivals were few. Equipments and archives were completely gone. What was left of its foundations and walls, worthless. In few words, Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital was gone.

Reports from the dozen survivals told about an explosion – or many, actually. A coordinated attack. A merciless, cruel act. Patients, visitors, staff members, all had their lives taken in seconds. Explosions caused the building to collapse almost immediately: what wasn't consumed in the fire, died under the wreckage.

But the Green Arrow wasn't one to give up hope so easily. He too joined the rescuing teams and firefighters, along with other volunteers, and helped digging through stone and steel. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize: that was about recovering corpses. Dead bodies. There was nothing alive in there, and nothing much he, or any other superhero, could do to help.

He did stay, however, almost till morning came. He knew that many people in Seattle believed he was a symbol of hope, and he wanted to give them at least that: hope. As the numbers of dead bodies grew, however – many of them children, newborn babies, even -, he realized that hope was one thing he was himself in shortage of.

The first sunrays found him as he allowed his body to drop on the mattress he kept in a corner of the room, a brief and poor relief for his aching back. He didn't force himself to change clothes, even wash his hands and face. Covered in ashes, dirt, even the blood of the wounded and dead, he still couldn't bring himself to stand up and return to his ordinary, mere human self. He was exhausted; too exhausted to do anything but close his eyes and try to forget the awful things he had come across that night.

Too exhausted, he suddenly realized, to notice the presence of someone else in the room.

It was quick: in a second he rolled away from the wall and reached his crossbow, a tenth of a second all he needed to arm it, his arrow breaking through the darkness in a flash of bright, sudden light. It crossed the room in an unnerving, daring precision, flying in a speed that would scary and surprise most opponents – no, not most; _any_ opponent. Anyone. Anyone but _him._

Oliver never saw him move, but he didn't need to. He knew too well that he had thrown one of his silly, annoying boomerangs at his arrow. He heard the sharp, short sound that came from it when it hit the arrow, breaking it in two. He saw the two pieces fly randomly across the room, the tip twisting and bouncing on the wall, the tail loosing direction and harmlessly ending its trajectory on the floor. And in the bleak light of the sunrise, that barely made way inside that place, he recognized the dark, massive form that gazed at him from the opposite corner, in silent expectation.

"Batman", the Green Arrow broke the silence, "far away from Gotham, aren't we?"

The sarcastic question didn't get an answer from the Dark Knight.

"This is a bad day for a visit", he proceeded. "I don't have time for your ominous mood today. You probably didn't hear about it yet, but something really bad happened last night…"

"Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital", Batman quickly intervened. "I heard about it."

In a better day, Oliver might have had a swift, sardonic joke about Batman's omniscience, but he had had a tough night. Even his quick mind seemed to be too numb to think of anything remotely funny.

"Yeah", he said, dropping his bow and seating on the floor. "That was pretty messed up. I just… I can't deal with much else right now."

Batman stared at him in silence for a moment, his mask an inscrutable and vacant sight. Then, he moved – just a couple steps – towards Oliver. As he did, he spoke: always in his throaty, unpleasant voice. Still, this time, there were hints of a foreign softness in his tone:

"As someone that has seen too much death and destruction in my own city… yes, I understand."

Green Arrow nodded. "It was awful. The hospital, an entire building… gone. Just _gone_!" He raised his head to look at Batman's dark mask. "And all those people… so many people. Doctors, nurses, patients, even kids…! Babies, man!"

"I know."

"At least two hundred dead. Maybe more. They can't be sure yet, but…" His voice faltered. "Damn it."

Again, there was silence between them. Oliver focused his gaze on the wall to his left, nothing but the dirty white paint to distract his mind.

"For some reason, someone decided that exploding a _hospital_ would be a good idea. Destroying a place that is there to _help_ people that are sick…" He shook his head from side to side. "You know, there are days in which I think that what I do… what _we_ do… it's a waste of time."

"You don't mean that", was Batman's raspy answer.

"Don't I?" He chuckled.

Gotham's Dark Knight didn't answer.

"Hundreds of people are dead, Batman. And Green Arrow, the pompous and professed Seattle's Emerald Archer, can't do a thing to fix that!"

"You can't fix it", he agreed, "but you can help this city heal."

"Wouldn't _that_ be nice?"

Batman placed a knee on the ground, his face leveled with Oliver's eyes. "You can do something, Mr. Queen."

The archer frowned. "And what is that?"

"You can get them. _They_. The people who did this."

Oliver smirked. "That's so _you_, Batman. Justice, right? Get the bad guy, bring them to the cops, wait until he escapes from the mad house and blow up something else."

"Don't do this, Mr. Queen. I know you're deeply upset, but mocking me is not the answer."

"I'm not mocking you, Bats. I'm just reasoning. I'm just considering that, maybe, _we_, the so called _heroes_, are not doing a very good job."

"I'm not here to argue, Arrow."

"Which brings us to the question that hangs in the air… why are you here, Batman?"

Standing up once again, he answered Oliver's question in a disheartened tone:

"Believe or not, Mr. Queen, to help you."

* * *

**Echoes from the Past**

_When the sun rises over Gotham City, it's impossible to ignore its taller skyscraper, a tower that shadows most part of Gotham's downtown when light comes from East. It was meant to be this way, history tell us, as the building was projected in the 1930's in a bold and risky business maneuver by brothers Silas and Patrick Wayne, who wanted to build the city's taller edifice. The idea was conceived in conflict, rumor says; the older brother, Silas, believed that such enterprise would show Gotham the Wayne family's power. Patrick, the younger, had a gentler heart: he wanted the Tower, as it came to be known, to be a symbol of hope, of all the possibilities Gotham could offer to those that were willing to work for it - the material translation, the Wayne heir believed, of the then so popular American Dream. _

_Now that the building approaches its eightieth birthday, however, it seems to be a conspicuous moment to revisit its legacy. Eight decades of being part of Gotham, perhaps the city's most famous structure, and that's saying a lot. Gotham City has been through so much in all these years, a city that has been rebuilt so many times that older citizens can't be bothered to count them. Destruction, sometimes, seems to be the norm, not the exception, and gothamites can rarely experiment a sense of security and permanency. No wonder that Wayne Tower, in all its height and brightness, surviving many disasters, is now consider a symbol for this town, so inclined to tragedies. _

_Eighty years is not much, if taken into account that Gotham itself is almost three hundred years old. But then again, Wayne Tower is the most audacious and elegant enterprise of the Wayne family, a name that has been heard around this city for almost as long as Gotham itself. Silas and Patrick were just two men in the long line of the rich, bold, tragic bloodline, that has been taking and giving to Gotham City ever since its first stone was set. Solomon Wayne, the Judge, was responsible for bringing the first railroads to these parts, a legacy so important that he is considered, by today's historians, the actual founder of Gotham. His son, Alan, was the man that pushed progress forward by financing – along with other big names like Elliot, Kane and Cobblepot – the important bridges known as "Gates of Gotham", the passages that connected islands and continental lands to form what is now known as Gotham City's metropolitan area. And, of course, there's Silas and Patrick, Alan's grandsons, who wanted to see Gotham from above, and inspire all gothamites to do same. _

_It's an undisputed statement that the Waynes have been the most important and preeminent family in Gotham since this town came to be. They were not only the richest and most generous benefactors of this town: they were the family that, at once, summarized Gotham's success and tragedy. Solomon Wayne's history is a perfect example: while the Judge is most known for his role as an abolitionist hero during the civil war, his brother Joshua lost his life in a tragic manner, trapped in caves under the family's manor, while assisting fugitive slaves. History tells us that Solomon was never the same after the death of his only beloved little brother. _

_His son Alan also had his fair share of tragedy; old letters written by this young Wayne show he struggled with depression and suicidal tendencies, and had no luck when it came to women. Later, when he finally married his wife Catherine, he had to deal with a great amount of problems in his company, and the Wayne legacy almost didn't survive his ambition. If that wasn't enough, his wife died young, while giving birth to his only son, Kenneth. And as Kenneth himself died in his twenties, leaving behind his wife Lauren and two small children, Gotham wondered: was there a curse running along the Wayne bloodline? _

_Calling one of the richest families in the world "cursed" might be considered a stretch, but there's something about the Waynes that seems to be offbeat when talking about dying young. The most contemporary example is the notorious murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne, parents of Bruce Wayne. Their deaths came too soon, no doubt, and in a very Gotham-like way: gunshot in front of their child in a dark alley, by a man that had eyes only for Martha's lovely string of pearls. Although both Thomas and Martha had treated Gotham well – he was a doctor that did a lot of pro-bono work, she was a generous benefactor for several institutions that cared for different and noble causes, like orphans, homeless people and drug addicts -, this city didn't spare them, or their only son. _

_It's Bruce Wayne, perhaps, the man that better translates the contradictions in the relationship between Gotham and the Wayne family. He's the man that sits on a chair in the top floor of Wayne Tower, watching from a safe distance the city his family helped build. From his privileged point of view, he has the chance of seeing so much, as well as the opportunity of acting in ways that only those with money and power can. And indeed he does: every now and then, usually during unusual, desperate moments, Bruce Wayne addresses his city, often with words of inspiration and courage. He also does his part, as a responsible business man should, by sharing wealth in charity and providing jobs while expanding his corporative empire. Wayne Enterprises is, without doubt, very much part of Gotham; as the company thrives, so does the city – but is the opposite true? _

_The answer to this question is not easy to achieve. It would be unfair to say that Wayne Enterprises, or Bruce Wayne himself, has gotten profit from Gotham's many hardships. But it's also true that, while Gotham City has grown to be a more violent, scarier, unfriendly place, the same cannot be said about Wayne Enterprises. If anything, numbers say that the company run by Bruce Wayne, assisted by people like Lucius Fox, has developed into a vast and diversified business, too powerful to be hurt by Gotham's deserved infamy. _

_The same, of course, could be said about Bruce Wayne. A man surrounded by mystery, whose life is an inscrutable shadow. A public man that has few aspects of his lifestyle revealed to anyone. Even those that work directly with him in Wayne Enterprises hardly know about his personal affairs, or are allowed to speak about it. "He's very private about himself", an employee of the company says, although asking for his name to remain unrevealed. "You don't see him talking about his life. You would never catch him talking about a woman he dated, or a place he visited during vacations."_

_Perhaps that's nothing to wonder; Bruce Wayne is anything but a regular man. In his early twenties, when most of his childhood friends were pursuing college degrees in Ivy Leagues schools, he allowed himself a few sabbatical years to travel around the world. Little is known about his adventures, but rumors are heard even today: some say he lived like a king, spending money like a crazy person that has nothing to lose. Other stories are more inventive: they tell about adventures as an amateur detective, or a street-fighter that lost his money in underworld fighting clubs. _

_Whatever the truth is, there's no doubt that Bruce Wayne did a bit of both; every once in a while he surprises his business associates with strange skills, like the fact that he speaks Japanese fluently. It's also a fact that, for many years, Wayne was considered dead even by his closest family members and friends, including his faithful butler and former guardian, Alfred Pennyworth. Be it as a playboy, or as a dashing adventurer, Bruce has seen a lot, and been through a lot – is it surprising that he has learned how to keep a secret? _

_Keeping appearances is a game the Waynes were always good at, as any aristocratic family should be. And in that, Bruce excels. Take as an example his own child: Bruce Wayne has kept his son, Damian, hidden from the public eye for many years – and to this day there are several details about the boy that are unknown. Who is his mother, for example? Has Bruce always known about the child's existence? And why, from time to time, the child simply seems to disappear from Bruce's life? Recent accounts estimate that the boy has not been seen for roughly two years, and there are those that wonder: is Damian really Bruce's biological son?_

_Fresh rumors now give hints about another possible heir for the Wayne fortune. The few people that are allowed occasional access to Wayne Manor testify that a child can be habitually seen running up and down the ancient stairs, or tripping on the valuable Persian rugs. Sights of Bruce in the company of a little boy were reported, as well as vague descriptions of a young, slender brunette that is frequently pointed as the mother of the child. She's been identified as one Selina Kyle, a single mother that can be often seen on Kane Park's playgrounds while chasing around her son, Henry. There are no records of when or where she has given birth to her child, but…_

"Damn it", Selina cursed, almost dropping her cup of coffee. She sat on a tall bench by the kitchen's balcony in Wayne Manor, the Gotham Gazette open over it as she casually ran her eyes through its contents. She usually followed that routine every morning: quickly reading the papers while Henry, strapped on his highchair, unceremoniously finished his breakfast. That particular morning, an article had caught her attention; something written by Vicky Vale, one of Bruce's ex-girlfriends – it wasn't something Selina would easily admit, but she actually _knew_ the names of one or two women Bruce had been romantically involved with. Vicky's name was the thing that first compelled her to read more, but soon she had realized the article was about something much more interesting… and dangerous.

Herself.

"Something wrong, Miss Kyle?"

Alfred had entered the kitchen, a slight frown showing he was intrigued by her sudden expletive.

"Did you see this, Alfred?" She took the paper and shook it at the butler's direction, unaware that her question came out far harsher than she would have intended.

"No, Miss Kyle", he gently said, leaning forward a few inches as he struggled to read the news on the trembling paper on Selina's hands. "I'm afraid that surveillance tasks in the cave have kept me busy during most of the night. I didn't have the chance of going through the Gazette just yet…"

It took him only few seconds examining the paper:

"Oh, my dear Lord", he whispered, eyes widened and his cheeks suddenly losing all color.

"You see?" Selina's voice was a hiss of pure anger and resentment. "This woman… this… this..."

"Reporter."

"This _witch_! This vile creature, this self-righteous, ignorant, stupid, stupid woman…!"

"Calm down, Miss Kyle."

"My _name_, Alfred. My name! She published my name!" She threw the paper on the floor in a nervous, infuriated gesture. "_Henry's_ name. She wrote it, Alfred… right there. She told the whole goddamned world about him…!"

The butler sighed, his eyes diverting to look at the small child on the highchair, the little boy that silently watched his mother's display of anger. "I'll call Master Bruce", Alfred declared. "He should be warned. Once he returns to Gotham, something must be done."

"'_Something'_, Alfred?" She shrugged that idea off in an idle movement of her shoulders. "What's to be done? It's our names in there. Printed and published."

"I know, Miss Kyle. Still…"

"It won't go away, Alfred", she interrupted him. "There's no going back. No matter what Bruce does, he can't make it vanish from people's mind."

"That's not what I meant, Miss Kyle."

"What _did_ you mean?"

The butler approached Henry, a hand gently stroking the boy's dark hair in a brief caress. "This day would come, Miss Kyle. This _moment_. It was bound to happen, one way or another."

"Not like this, Alfred."

"It doesn't matter." He turned to face Selina once again, a grave expression on his elderly features. "It's here. And now, liking it or not, you and Master Bruce will have to deal with it."

"It's not fair, Alfred. Not to Henry, not to me… our lives… it will all become such a mess…!"

"You can't predict it, Miss Kyle. Maybe - although inadvertently, no doubt – Vicky Vale did you and Master Bruce a favor."

"I don't see how, Alfred."

"By forcing this upon you, Miss Kyle", he spoke as he took one of Henry's hand into his, the little boy smiling tenderly at him, "she has taken away the doubt. The fear."

She nodded in denial. "I'm still afraid. Henry… this could be dangerous. He will be more vulnerable, we all will."

"Henry was born into this family, Miss Kyle, whether you like it or not. He's a Wayne, and no secret can change this fact."

"I know", she whispered, biting her lower lip as she did. "And now, the whole world does too."

"You must trust Master Bruce, Miss Kyle." The butler's tone was solemn, as was his gaze. "Henry is his son. And I assure you… there's no one, nothing in this world, that is more precious to Master Bruce than this child." He looked over his shoulder to stare at Selina. "With the possible exception of yourself, of course."

"Alfred…"

He didn't allow her to finish her sentence:

"He _will protect you_, Selina. The both of you."

She didn't answer him – eyes closed, tears burning her eyelids as she sheltered her face on her own palms.

"Please, Miss Kyle", Alfred insisted, his voice now a soft, affectionate whisper. "Give Master Bruce the chance to be the man he desperately wants to be for you."

"And what is that, Alfred?" She returned the butler's gaze by revealing her wet, anxious features.

"A father and a husband", he simply stated. "Nothing more."


	4. Conspiracy

The small diner near his place was called Wonder Waffles, and he hated that. It was an awful, terrible name, and Steve Trevor just couldn't shake off the feeling that the name might have something to do with himself. Unfortunately, he could be categorized as one of those once-upon-a-time celebrities – not by choice -, an undesired collateral effect of his past relationship with Diana. He also had lived in that very same neighborhood for almost ten years now; the three-story, red-brick apartment building he lived at had also enjoyed a few years of fame. There was a time when tourists that came to DC would add the ordinary, boring structure to their visiting tours: "Wonder Woman lived here, ladies and gentlemen", young guides would tell the crowd – erroneously, of course. Diana had never lived in his apartment, or with him. In fact, she had never lived in Washington.

That didn't matter, though. People would gladly accept that little lie, and dozens of pairs of eyes would stare at Trevor's window in hopeful, dreamy gazes. Pictures would be taken, and there were even regular claims that Wonder Woman had actually been seen on the vicinities of his place. Rumors, gossip, lies. Words that were never proven – and yet, right on the corner of Steve's block, someone had opened a cheap restaurant called Wonder Waffles. A less than subtle reference to Wonder Woman, he had no doubt.

Despite the proximity, it had taken a few years for Colonel Steve Trevor to enter that diner, for obvious reasons. Truth to be told, he had promised himself he would never, _ever_, set foot in that damn place. But promises, unfortunately, were frail things indeed.

He didn't exactly remember why, but it had been Waller's doing. Amanda Waller – A.R.G.U.S.'s Director and, in many ways, his boss. It had been a rainy night, he recalled, and she had asked him to meet her somewhere to discuss business. There were few places still open, and the Wonder Waffles had been one, and conveniently close to his apartment. They had met there: Waller and her coffee, Steve and a slice of pie – it was good pie, he admitted.

Before he knew it, the diner became part of his routine. It was a 24-hour restaurant, open every single hour of the day or night, every single day. It had good coffee, good food, great cheesecake. It was never crowded. Mostly quiet. And no one ever asked his name.

Maybe they knew. They _probably_ knew who he was. Still, none of the waitresses ever called him Steve, or Mr. Trevor, not even Colonel. The old man at the register barely spoke, and all the other costumers were usually comfortable ignoring each other. And, frankly, Steve couldn't envision a better way to start or finish his days after work: in silent peace.

That morning was no different, especially because he had had a tough night. At around four A.M., when he had finally beaten his persistent insomnia and had managed to sleep for an hour, his phone rang. On the other side, Amanda Waller and her customary reason to call him: bad news.

"Something happened in Seattle", she told him, not even a hello or any other greeting or explanation.

He had sat on his bed, eyes still closed, the phone over his ear, one of his hands rubbing his own face:

"What's going on?"

"An explosion", she quickly said. "A hospital."

Waller wasn't one to express her feelings, or any kind of feelings, actually. Still, Trevor noticed signs of anxiety in her tone. And that was something he could surely call as bad sign.

"How bad?"

"Pretty bad." She sighed audible on the other side. "It's Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital. It's... gone."

Steve had managed to reach the remote control of his television, and had already turned it on.

"I see it", he said, watching images that actually showed him almost nothing: all he could discern was the dark, thick smoke that spread on the screen.

"It's worse than it looks, I assure you."

"That's comforting", he sarcastically commented – sarcasm wasn't an usual trait for him, but he was tired and sleep deprived. Then: "Do you want the JLA involved or…?"

"No", Waller quickly answered. "I don't see a point in doing it."

"Point? Do we need special reason to get involved?"

"Don't be naïve, Colonel", she censured him. "Of course you do. The Justice League of America isn't one of those rogue groups of super powered clowns that act mindlessly…"

"People are dying, Waller. They need _help_."

There was a moment of silence on the other side.

"Waller?"

"I'm thinking", she said abruptly.

"You do that", Steve spoke softly, almost in a whisper: he was too focused on the images that played in his TV.

"Ok", Waller suddenly declared, her tone back to its usual pattern: dry, direct, confident. "You may take the team."

"Right now?"

"You have three hours till departure", she said, hanging up the phone immediately after.

As he entered the diner that early morning, two hours after Waller had woke him up and an hour before his scheduled business trip, he found the place unusually noisy. The television, that was rarely seen turned on, played the news loudly, attracting the attention of the other two costumers in there: an old man sat by the counter, his red baseball hat angled down to the point that his face could be seen only from his nose down; and a younger woman, still dressed in her dark, damp trench coat, whose back was turned to the door.

Steve's entrance didn't seem to distract any of the waitresses, and he walked to his usual table by the large glass window barely noticed by the diner's staff. The same could not be said about the costumers, though: once he crossed door steps, both the woman and the old man turned to watch him. Steve didn't make much of it, at first – it was early and cold and, if not for the television, silent. His entrance had allowed the freezing wind a way inside, if only briefly; still, it was enough to make him noticeable. However, as he approached his seat, he couldn't help but realize that the woman who watched him was no stranger:

"Colonel Trevor", she called as he passed by her table.

He took a long, heavy breath before answering her:

"I can't talk right now, Miss Lane."

He knew her too well – Lois Lane. She had been one of Metropolis' Daily Planet top reporters, and one of the most notorious journalists in the world. Lane had authored several books, had won the Pulitzer, had made a name for herself… and mostly by writing about Superman and other "capes". Supers were her specialty, and it was no surprise that she had her eyes constantly on A.R.G.U.S.'s business; she wasn't fond of Waller, and the feelings were reciprocal. Trevor, however, wasn't as adamant about the "total secrecy" politics that Director Waller had forced on A.R.G.U.S and all its employees, and he had talked to Lane – as an anonymous source, of course – about several issues in the past. As years passed, however, even the Colonel had to admit that the press was often too inclined to pass judgment on A.R.G.U.S's actions, especially on where the Justice League of America was concerned. Lois Lane, now a self-employed blogger in her online tabloid, "The Fast Lane", had done more than a few recent pieces on how the JLA wasn't really necessary, and wasn't even a "real super-team". And as much as Steve knew that the JLA was created to be a governmental squad, and oppose the Justice League if it came to that, he also believed that the JLA members had their hearts in the right place. And if Lois Lane couldn't see that, well, it was her loss.

It had been over a year since he had spoken to Lane, and had no intention of ever doing it again. He thought that she had understood that – it certainly looked like she had, since she had never tried to contact him again. Seeing her there, though, almost at his doorstep, was certainly a problem: it meant that she had not forgotten about him. But that wasn't the worst part; the worst, no doubt, was the fact that Lane probably had questions for him, and important ones. Most likely regarding issues he wouldn't and couldn't talk about.

"C'mon, Steve", she insisted, her right hand grabbing the sleeve of his coat. "It's barely six in the morning… Let me buy you coffee, at least."

"I rather have my coffee by myself, Miss Lane. Now, please, if you'll just let go of my arm…"

She dropped his sleeve, placing her hands on her own lap. Smiling, she spoke in a calm, pleasant tone:

"I'm not here to bother you, Colonel."

"Too late."

She chuckled:

"I'm not even here for _you_, Steve."

That line did intrigue him. He asked, incapable of avoiding the austerity in his tone:

"Are you saying us, meeting _here_, is a coincidence?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"You're not that much of a fool."

"No, I'm not", she admitted. "But this meeting is not _my_ doing, I assure you."

He sighed again, privately admitting his defeat; in a quick movement, he sat on the chair directly in front of her, on the other side of the table.

"Alright, Lane, you won. What the hell are you doing here, and what do you want?"

A thought crossed his mind – that she might be following a story about the explosion in Seattle. It would make perfect sense: it was the biggest thing happening in the country at the moment. But then, he realized that it wouldn't be possible. If Lois had come to DC from Metropolis, she would have been on her way there when the explosion happened. Still, he whispered:

"If this is about Seattle… I can't help."

"That's too bad", she casually commented, "but no, it's not about the hospital in Seattle."

Taking her tablet from her bag, she showed him a web page: it was from the Gotham Gazette, its headline already showing recent pictures of the wreckage of Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital.

"Is that supposed to be unexpected? It's only natural that every paper in the country will be covering the explosion…"

"No", she said, scrolling the page down and showing him the Gazette's section devoted to local news. "That's not what I want you to see, though."

Lois touched the screen and reveled to him an article, something about Gotham's past that was written by Vicky Vale. The name was familiar to Steve: Vale had been working at the Gazette for almost as long as Lane had been at the Daily Planet, and there was even a certain amount of rivalry between the two journalists. He had never met Vicky Vale in person, but her stories concerning Gotham's many colorful villains and vigilantes were well-known, as was her attraction to wealthy playboys. It was no surprise to Trevor that her article seemed to revolve around the Wayne family and their legacy – the real issue there, he quickly realized as he ran his eyes through the page, was another name:

Selina Kyle.

"Interesting article, isn't it?" Lois spoke as he still held the tablet, eyes glued to the screen, his face blank and immobile as he struggled to keep any emotion from showing in his features.

He nodded in deliberate indifference. "I guess."

She smiled. "Nothing, hm?"

"I don't know what you mean. Was I supposed to see something here, or…?" He shrugged.

It was her turn to nod, moving her head up and down slowly, her gaze never leaving Steve's face. "C'mon, Colonel", she insisted. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

He placed the tablet down, raising his eyes to stare at Lois. "If you have a question for me, Miss Lane, you better ask me now. I have a busy day ahead of me, and I'm already late."

She leaned over the table, returning his gaze with an intense, resolute look. She whispered:

"Selina Kyle."

_Oh, hell_, was all that went through Steve's mind. Regardless, he answered her immediately:

"I have no idea who that is." He pointed at the tablet. "Wayne's girlfriend, is it? Seems like a lucky girl, doesn't she?"

Lois frowned, clearly annoyed by the answer. "Really? Are you going to go with _that_? Pretending you don't know her?!"

"If by 'that' you mean 'the truth', then yes, I'm going with that."

"Alright." Lois' voice now showed signs of impatience. "You don't know her. Selina Kyle's name is not, and never was, in A.R.G.U.S.'s database. That's your story?"

"Exactly."

Reaching for her bag again, Lois took an envelope: simple and plain, no identification, no addresses. She threw it over the table.

"Then why", she asked, "did I receive this last night, on my doorstep?"

The Colonel didn't move; he kept his hands under the table.

"I don't know what that is", he slowly declared, "but if you got it from an unknown sender, I would go to the police. Unidentified envelopes left on journalists doors are usually bad business."

Lois rolled her eyes. "I've opened already, Colonel. If you're afraid it's a bomb or something like that, you can put your fears to rest." She pushed it softly towards Trevor. "C'mon, check it out."

It took a few seconds for Trevor to finally make a move towards the envelope, taking it into his hands. He opened it carefully, finding inside it a small flashdrive and a dozen printed pictures. This time, he wasn't surprised to see that the pictures depicted none other than Selina Kyle, and in several different moments. There were pictures of her by herself, others showing her with her son, and even a couple that showed her in the company of Bruce Wayne. And if that wasn't intriguing enough, there was one picture of Selina wearing her Catwoman outfit, goggles raised to her forehead, her face clearly visible. On the back of this picture, however, something unordinary: a hand-written note, that had the address of the restaurant, a date and a specific time.

"So that's why you were here today, at this God-forsaken hour."

"Yes, Colonel. That's why."

"Well", he said, his voice perfectly steady, "I don't think I can help you with this. I mean, the pictures are clearly trying to make a point about this woman, but…"

"You never saw what's in the flashdrive, Steve."

"And I don't want to, Miss Lane."

She laughed quietly. "Oh, Steve… of course you do."

He sighed. "You're just playing the game the people that gave you this want you to play."

"Maybe", she said, "but I'm not a fool, and I want to do this right. Someone wants to see this woman exposed, but I want to know who, and I want to know why."

"Before publishing anything?"

Lois watched him for a moment, a contemplative expression in her features.

"This here, Miss Lane… this might not be the truth. Or not the whole truth, anyway. We are talking about real people, their lives, their _child_. If you publish something like this…"

"I know, Colonel. I know."

"Do you, Lois? Do you really know what's at stake here?"

She looked outside the window, then back at Trevor.

"Truth to be told, Colonel, I don't think I do. I don't think I have all the information I need to _really_ understand it. And that's why I'm here."

The Colonel couldn't help but chuckle.

"Alright. And why do you think I might be able to help you? Why do you think I would _want_ to help you?"

Again she leaned forward, her face inches from Trevor's. She spoke in a gentle, soft murmur:

"Because if this woman really is Catwoman, Colonel, and if she was part of the JLA, you might want to help _her_."

Steve lightly bit his lower lip, and remained in silence. The reporter, however, kept talking:

"Just think about it, Colonel: the people that have this information are out there. Wouldn't you wanna know who they are? Or if they have shared this information with other reporters?"

"Yes, Miss Lane", he agreed, "I would very much like to know that."

* * *

The phone by his bed rang insistently, waking him up from his already too light sleep.

He reached for it, never thinking about the gesture: few were the people that had any knowledge about his whereabouts, and if it was one of them on the phone, then it was something that just couldn't wait.

"Yes", he answered, his voice a tired, throaty sound.

"Wayne", the person on the other side immediately asked. "_Bruce_ Wayne?"

The voice wasn't familiar, and that set an alarm inside him.

"Who's this?" He made sure his displeasure showed in his tone. "How did you get this number?"

"Anonymous source", the person answered, mockery in his voice. _Male_, Bruce registered, _cocky_. It had to be a reporter.

"Don't call again", he warned, already removing the phone from his ear. He halted midway, however, as he heard the words the man spoke in scorn:

"I'll call Selina Kyle, then."

Slowly, he returned the phone to his ear:

"Who _are_ you?" Bruce felt his words carried more resemblance to a furious snarl than to a mere human voice.

"My name is Alexander Knox", the man answered in simplicity. "I work for Gotham Cable News, and we wanted to know if you have something to say about the Gazette's article."

"And what article are we talking about?"

"I'll be happy to send you by e-mail", Knox joyfully offered.

"That's not necessary", Bruce dryly said. "I have nothing to say about the lies the press constantly publishes about me."

"So…"

"And I assure you, Mr. Knox: I'm ready to take legal action against those that disrespect my privacy… or any of my friends."

"Selina Kyle is just a _friend_, then?"

"I'm hanging up now, Mr. Knox. Tell your bosses at Gotham Cable they will hear from my lawyers."

"And this Henry Kyle… he's not your child? Your _biological_ child?"

Bruce felt his hear skip a beat. Still, he said:

"Have a nice day, Mr. Knox."

He hung up.

In a second he was out of his bed, searching the hotel room for his private cell phone. It was on his bag, where he had left it the night before. He speed-dialed one of the few numbers that was on the device's memory. Someone answered it on the first call:

"Selina", he immediately said, knowing too well it was her.

"Bruce." She sounded concerned already in her very first word. The rest just confirmed his first impression. "Did you see it? The Gazette…?"

"No. No, I didn't read it…" He considered his following words for a moment. Then: "I've… heard about it. I know it mentions you."

"And Henry", she added, her voice shaken.

"Yes."

"They say he's your son", she proceeded nervously. "They mention his age, the playground we go to, even the color of his eyes. They _know_ us! It's awful, Bruce…!"

They did – whoever _they_ were. They knew them so well that the fact the article had been published when he was in Seattle, so far from home, might not be a coincidence. And that was a scary thought indeed; one that Selina didn't need to have.

"We're going to fix this, Selina", he firmly asserted. He was also aware of the foolishness of this action, of the emptiness in this promise that he couldn't be certain he would be able to fulfill. Regardless of all that, he couldn't help himself: he needed to tell her something. Something to reassure her, something that would help Selina trust him and trust the fact that he had the means to protect both Henry and her.

"How?", she demanded to know. "This won't go away, Bruce… this… this is final."

"But we'll get through this. Safely. You and Henry… you're going to be fine."

He heard as she took a long, deep breath, her voice sounding less agitated as she spoke:

"When are you coming home?"

"Soon."

"Today?"

Was it so wrong that he desperately wanted to say "yes" to that question? And yet, he couldn't; Bruce Wayne's world might be on the verge of falling apart, but he still had obligations as Batman. In Seattle, that very night, people had died; and he just couldn't turn his back to that.

"As soon as I can."

"The hospital", she quickly concluded. "Are you looking into that? I just saw it on the news, it looked… terrible."

"Terrible doesn't begin to describe it."

"Yeah, I figured…" There was a moment of silence, and he understood it as hesitance from her part. "Look, Bruce… We'll be okay. I mean, for now, at least. I'll stay at the Manor, lay low for a while. You don't have to rush your… _business_ there."

"Selina…"

"I mean it, Bruce."

"I know. I know you do." He walked back to the bed, seating on it again. "How is Henry doing?"

"Oh, he's fine. Jumping on the couch, running on the yard, playing with his toys… the usual. Just his happy little self." The change in her tone was immediate; for a second, she sounded just like an ordinary, cheerful mother, glad to be able to talk about her child.

"Did he ask about me?"

"Did he ask about you? Are you kidding me? It was the first thing he asked me when he woke up. _'Daddy, daddy, where daddy go'_, he kept saying..."

Bruce chuckled. "Well, tell him I'll be home soon."

"Hopefully."

"Hopefully", he agreed. And then: "I miss him. And you."

"We miss you too", she whispered.

"It's going to be okay, Selina. We'll figure this out."

"I know. We will."

"Look… I have to go. Talk to you later?"

"Okay." There was a pause before she spoke again, her voice a subtle, soft sound. "Be careful, Bruce."

"I will."

He turned the phone off, holding it for a minute in his hands. Then, he dialed another number. Just like it had happened with Selina, his call was answered quickly; and again, he immediately started to talk:

"Clark", he gravely said, "I need your help."


	5. Treachery

"Hello, Miss Kyle", he said while offering his hand for a handshake, "My name is Clark Kent."

She watched him quietly, her emerald eyes examining him cautiously.

"You're taller than I pictured you", she confessed, frowning slightly.

Clark smiled, unsure about how to react to that. Yes, he was tall – the average kryptonian towered most ordinary humans by a few inches, at least. But he couldn't start his conversation with Selina Kyle with that kind of information, of course. To her, he was just Clark Kent: Bruce's friend and a well-known and respected journalist. He was there to help Selina and Bruce, to use his expertise as a professional reporter to assist them with the whole tribulation with the local press. To his best knowledge, Selina Kyle had no idea that, at this very moment, she was talking to the man that was, in fact, Superman.

"Oh", he mumbled, retracting his hand and using it to scratch the back of his head. "Well, yeah… I get that a lot."

She sat on the couch behind her, one of the two leather chesterfields on Wayne Manor's library. Clark sat on the other one.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Kent."

"Please. Call me Clark."

She smiled slightly. "_Clark_. Ok." After a brief pause: "You can call me Selina, I guess."

"Alright, Selina", he nodded softly. She seemed considerably tense and wary, and he knew that gentle gestures and a calm tone of voice would help her relax a bit, at least enough to don't act so defensive. "As Bruce might have told you, he called me earlier today. He thinks that I, being a reporter, might be able to help with the…" He hesitated. "With the Gazette's article."

Breathing deeply, she turned her gaze to the window. A beautiful woman, this Selina Kyle was; no wonder Bruce liked her, Clark mused in silence. She might have thought he was taller than expected, but he was surprised to see that Selina wasn't quite the woman _he_ remembered also. He had seen her as Catwoman a couple times, at least, and she had stroke him then as an athletic, tall, muscular woman. Now, as he saw her without her mask, out of her outfit, he wouldn't describe her the same way. She looked more ordinary, no doubt, and also prettier. If as Catwoman she looked fierce and menacing, as Selina Kyle she seemed just graceful and serene. She was surprisingly young, and he would describe her more as slender than actually strong; her features were beautifully sculpted, carved on her pale, soft skin – a set of qualities he wouldn't expect to find in someone that had been once called the most dangerous thief in the world. It had been always hard for him to understand what was that Bruce saw in that woman, but now he believed he might have got it: the contradiction. Like Bruce himself, Selina was a mix of contradictory, paradoxical traits. And, because of that, she might be the only woman in the world that could reach beyond the darkness, and who could actually see beyond Bruce's masks – a rare gift indeed.

She spoke quietly, eyes still focused outside, a wrinkle of preoccupation maculating her brow. "Bruce told me you could help us. He said that maybe I should talk to you, and hear your opinion about this."

"Yes", he agreed. "Considering the situation… you should think about a press release. Nothing too informative, but something to keep the press from digging too deeply."

Selina hinted a smile, a rogue gesture in her otherwise stern features. "Do you think I have something to hide, Mr. Kent?"

He knew she was testing him – typical. The world around her was falling apart, but she remained suspicious and cynical. She obviously needed a reality check.

"Everybody has something to hide, Selina", he firmly asserted. And as she stared at him in displeasure, he proceeded. "Even if you have no sins to be uncovered, I assure you: the way the press may color your acts makes a big difference. We all have something we wish to keep private, even if only for convenience. And if you try to hide something… even for the noblest intentions… you'll find out that the press can make you ashamed of your own shadow."

"I'm not ashamed of who I am, Mr. Kent."

"Then don't put your confidence to test, Miss Kyle."

Her emerald gaze darted in resentment, but she silently mused over his words. After a minute, she said:

"Bruce says… he thinks we should speak about Henry." Her hands nervously clasped each other over her lap as she spoke - the first sign she gave of apprehension since their conversation started, Clark noticed. "Do you agree?"

"He told me about your son", he admitted.

"_Our _son. Bruce's and…"

"Yes. I know."

She pressed her lips tightly together.

"Selina", Clark spoke softly, "it's out there. The word around Gotham is that Bruce Wayne has another child. One he seems to want to _hide_. What do you think this might sound like to those that don't know Bruce, or you?"

"I don't know", she whispered. "I don't _care_."

"You should care, Miss Kyle. It's your child. The longer it takes for you and Bruce to admit to your… hm… _relationship_, the more people will get curious. I'm not saying you should take pictures and show your son on magazine covers, but you have to let them know that you have nothing to hide. That there's nothing wrong with Henry, or…"

"_Wrong_? What could be wrong with him…? He's just a baby, he…"

"… he's been kept away from his father's world. He's treated as a secret. Like a _problem_."

Selina shook her head, a skeptical smirk on her features. "We just want to protect him. You don't understand…"

"I don't", he admitted. "I'm not a father. I'm not rich, or famous. But I'm a reporter, Selina. And I know that, right now, a dozen reporters are going over any kind of information they can put their hands on about you, about Bruce, and about Henry. All they want to find is a story, and they will fill the gaps if they need to. And when you let people do that, when stories are written about you, and without your participation, you have no control whatsoever about what's going to be printed."

"Lies", she hissed.

"Or the truth. But other people's point of view about the truth."

She closed her eyes and sighed, her hands covering her mouth.

"And if you allow me a personal observation…", he searched for her eyes, looking into them as she again revealed her remarkable gaze. "I'm not as close to Bruce as you, of course, but I do know him a bit… and I have the feeling that he can handle this well."

Selina again rested her hands over her lap. "He won't have a choice, I guess. I mean, the whole world will know about his illegitimate child and…"

"Not illegitimate, Miss Kyle. Just his child. And I think he will feel nothing but happiness if able to publicly admit this."

She nodded, her head moving softly up and down. "Yes. You are right, Mr. Kent." Again turning to the window, she spoke, addressing no one in particular. "The truth is, Clark, that neither Bruce nor Henry is the problem. _I_ am."

"And why is that?"

"Let's just say that if things go well, Mr. Kent, I'll never have to answer this question of yours."

* * *

II

The Justice League of America had its own jet, and that was very convenient. Even more convenient, Colonel Steve Trevor thought, was the fact that he was the only team member able to pilot it. The JLA would often count with Air Force pilots to take them anywhere the team needed to be, but it wasn't unusual for the Colonel to dismiss them. Truth to be told, Steve felt deeply uncomfortable when he considered the risks those men would undergo while piloting that plane. A "super-team", as the League had been nicknamed in A.R.G.U.S., carried on missions that were far beyond the expected for an ordinary soldier. Yes, they lived in a different world now, and a soldier didn't chose his battles – circumstances told what war would be fought, and they should always be prepared -, but it seemed unfair to put those men under unnecessary risk.

Trevor knew like few people did that a life around a super-powered being was a constant rollercoaster, and you could easily become what was ordinarily called "collateral damage". He had been collateral damage once – the victim of circumstances that had little or nothing to do with himself. At least he had been able to say that getting involved with super-powered creatures was his choice; would those pilots be able to say the same?

Besides, there was something else that terrified him: the thought of telling about those men deaths to their families. To their mothers. Their children. Their wives. Soldiers die in wars, and that's awful. A tragedy. But it has a _meaning_. A soldier dies at the hands of a colorful psycho that just wants to piss one of those superheroes off?

That's just inexcusable.

All that considered, he rather pilot the jet himself.

Another good point was that he just loved – _loved_ – flying. He was a pilot, and he loved planes and the sky. Before Diana, before A.R.G.U.S., before everything in the world became such a mess, the cockpit of a jet was his true home. His heart had wings, and the sight of the infinite horizon was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Back then, he was just a kid, a silly kid, but also the greatest pilot in the Air Force, just a young man trying to do the right thing. He had no doubts, no second thoughts about his acts: he followed orders and completed missions. And he rarely, if ever, asked "why".

Now, he did nothing but ask questions, and wondered every single day if he was really doing the right thing.

Right now, as he had a few moments to himself while piloting – the rest of the team on the back of the plane, the sound of their voices muffled by the closed door that separates the pilot's cabin from the rest of the aircraft -, he wondered again about decisions. His meeting with Lois Lane, just that very morning, had casted a shadow over his work in A.R.G.U.S. once again. Not only the reporter had brought important information to his attention, she had also, probably without even realizing, made him question his loyalties.

The envelope Lane had left at his possession had pictures and a flashdrive, with several different files. Mostly pictures, all similar to the ones that were already printed, all images showing Selina Kyle, in her Catwoman outfit and out of it. There were also scanned copies of a dozen documents: Henry Kyle's birth certificate, Selina's rent contract (under a false name, of course), Selina's criminal records (that had been, to Steve's best knowledge, erased from every data-base in the world by his A.R.G.U.S.' people), Henry's medical files from when he was treated for a mysterious disease, over a year ago. Trevor didn't have the time to exam every single file in that flashdrive – yet -, but he did take a good look at those pictures. And he knew that most of them, if not every single one of those, had come from A.R.G.U.S.'s database.

There was no doubt in his mind; he had seen the majority of those images before, presented to him by undercover agents that he so often supervised. He had opposed Waller's orders then, when she commanded that surveillance over Selina Kyle remained active:

"You're looking for trouble", he warned her.

"I don't see why", she simply stated, barely looking at him: she had her eyes on her computer, going over her e-mails.

"Why? I'll tell you why: because of _him_."

She smiled. "You mean the Batman?"

"Who else?"

She finally turned to stare at him:

"You're not _scared_, are you, Steve? Afraid the Batman pay you another visit, perhaps…"

Waller would never miss the chance of reminding him of that episode, almost two years ago: when Batman had first noticed A.R.G.U.S.'s agents following Selina, and had decided to give Steve a _message_. A painful one – the Colonel still had titanium pins and steel cables attached to his jaw to remind him. Regardless of that, however, Steve's objections had more to do to another thing:

"I'm more concerned about the risks of having Batman's identity threatened. Did you consider how something like that could affect the world?"

"As a matter of fact, Colonel, yes, I did."

Now, as he flew from a coast to the other, and was able to be by himself, he wondered:

What if this that was happening to Selina was exactly what Waller had planned all along?

* * *

III

"What am I looking at?"

The question came from Green Arrow, as he carefully studied a particular report from Seattle's police. The file was on his computer, brought by Batman to him in a strange memory card – Justice League tech, no doubt. Oliver couldn't help but notice it, he being, besides a crime-fighter, the CEO of one of the most successful technology companies in the world. His crime-fighter side, however, marveled at the fact that Batman had managed to hack the police's database so swiftly and promptly, to the point that he had copies from all the reports filled in the last year or so – and he did it without being noticed, mind you.

"What do you see?" Batman was elusive as ever, and Oliver wasn't really sure why. He believed he was being a good host, especially given the circumstances. He allowed Batman to come to another one of his safe-houses, agreed to let the man use his computers, even seat on his chair. He also had showed his trust in the most definitive way he could think of: taking off his mask. Yes, it was true that Batman had time and time again made obvious that he was well aware of Green Arrow's identity, but still… taking masks off was a big step – or so Oliver thought.

Apparently, so did Batman – he didn't remove his cowl, and didn't seem prone to do it. Was he aware, Oliver wondered, that his identity was known to him? Probably; the man was called the greatest detective in the world, and apparently knew _everything_.

"Mr. Queen", Batman called, repeating the question once more. "What do you see?"

Oliver sighed, leaning to look over Batman's shoulder and read the report once again. As he did, he spoke:

"Well, it seems to be a murder… police thinks it's a robbery that went wrong… happened last night. Mother, father, two children…" He halted, reading again the information. Then: "Wait a second… there was a third child…? She was in a hospital, not present when the murders took place…"

Batman opened another document: the list of victims of the explosions in Moira Queen's Memorial Hospital. A name was highlighted, and Green Arrow read it out loud:

"Leah Harper Wallace." He took a moment. "Damn…!"

Batman remained silent, eyes on the screen.

"Wait a second", Oliver said. "You think the murders are related to the explosion…?"

"Yes", he immediately answered, no hesitation in his voice.

"Hold on. You have no facts to substantiate this. It is a freakish coincidence, I give you that, but…"

"There are no coincidences."

"Yeah, I know you're one of those guys that probably think that, but let's be realistic…" He idly gestured towards the screen. "Why would anyone do that? What's the motive?"

"They wanted to hide something." Batman returned to the police report, showing it to Oliver. "Several things were stolen. The report says no computers, no cameras, no cell phones were found in the house."

Oliver chuckled in response, speaking then in obvious scorn:

"Right. Someone tries to rob a house and takes computers and cameras. That's unexpected."

"No jewelry was taken; nor the television. Not even the money that was kept in a locked drawer – almost ten thousand dollars. They broke the lock and opened the drawer, but took nothing."

"That _is_ strange, but…"

"Documents were taken. Medical records. Nothing concerning the children's vaccination history was found in the house. Not a single medication vial. Or an old prescription."

Green Arrow bit his lower lip. "Okay… and what do you think it means, then?"

Batman stood up and walked a few feet across the room, then turning to look at Oliver. He hesitated for a moment, arms crossed over his chest; when he finally spoke, he did it slowly, in a rhythm that was unusual for him:

"This family… they are the reason I came to Seattle."

Arrow didn't debate that, although the statement surprised him; he merely frowned, waiting for further information. Batman proceeded:

"That little girl… _Leah_… she was sick. Terribly sick. She was at the hospital, and I believe she was going to…" He took a moment to breathe in, air filling his broad chest and coming out in a sound exhale. "She was going to _die_."

"Okay… and you think her death… it's the reason the hospital was attacked. Her family was killed." Oliver shook his head in confusion. "Why? This little girl, what was so special about her?"

"It's not her", Batman gravely explained. "It's what killed her that matters."

"A disease?"

Gotham's vigilante didn't answer immediately, giving Oliver time to think. If that was intentional or not, Arrow wouldn't be able to say; the result, however, was his quick mind processing all that information, and leaving to him just one conclusion:

"It's the same disease, isn't?" His voice came out a raspy, dry sound. "It's what happened in Gotham, to Selina's kid…"

His gaze down from Batman's face, he whispered. "To _your_ kid."

Batman merely nodded, accepting Oliver's remark.

"I should have known", Green Arrow carried on, his voice tainted by contempt. "You, coming to Seattle, to help _me_? Not unless it involves something _personal_, right, Bats?"

The Dark Knight was about to argue that, when his attention was diverted: a hand over his concealed ear, he seemed to be getting information from a long distance communicator.

"What's the matter, Batman? Cyborg needs help with his homework?"

The joke didn't amuse him; when Batman spoke, he did in a grim, displeased tone:

"It seems I'm not the only one that came to Seattle to help, Arrow… and did it uninvited." He returned to Oliver's computer, and removed his memory card abruptly. "Your _friends_, the JLA, are here."

* * *

IV

It was just after lunch, when Henry was down for his nap, that Selina decided it would be wise to go to her apartment in town, and get a few personal items.

"Do you think this is a good idea, Miss Kyle?" Alfred pondered in his gentle, unruffled voice.

It wasn't a good idea, probably. But Selina couldn't risk it: from what she knew about Gotham's press, it wouldn't be a surprise if one of the intrepid reporters from the Gazzete or the Post risked big and actually tried to break into her apartment. That in itself would be unpleasant enough, sure, but there were more serious issues: she still kept part of her Catwoman equipment, and a spare Catwoman outfit there. And if one of them stumbled upon _that_... well, it was so bad she didn't even want to think about it.

"I think it's something I have to do, Alfred", she simply said. "Will you watch Henry for a few hours?"

"Certainly, Miss Kyle. It will be my pleasure."

"I'll be back soon, okay?"

She drove herself from Bristol to downtown Gotham in less than thirty minutes, the traffic still light at that hour. Parked the car – one of Bruce's car, actually – a couple blocks away, and walked to her building in quick, short steps. The neighborhood was calm: few people on the streets, few cars driving by. Nothing unusual; that was mostly a residential area, close to Robinson Park, and the place chosen by many young families with small children. Once classes in the elementary schools where over for the day, the sidewalks would be packed with parents and their offspring, many of them stopping at grocery shops to buy last-minute ingredients for dinner, others escorting the kids to the park for one last energy-spending moment at the playgrounds before dark. But now, a few minutes before two P.M., Selina walked almost an entire block before someone – a teenager in a bike – crossed her path.

Reaching the building's entrance, she used her key and let herself in, quickly closing the door and making sure it was locked again. She didn't take the elevator – the apartment was just on the second floor, and the stairs were less used, so the chances of her running into one of her neighbors were lower. In a minute she was there, by her door, opening it to find her dark living room.

It had been months since she had spent any significant amount of time in that place, that had once been her home. She had rented it in her final months of pregnancy, planning it to be where her son would live and grow, at least for a few years. It was a fine apartment: three bedrooms, kitchen, large living room, a sunny corner that would be a nice playing area for a baby. At the time, she remembered thinking about herself as a single mother; she never considered, not even in her wildest dreams, that she and Bruce would get so deeply involved, and so soon.

Not that he hadn't been there for her; he was, and very much so. He was with her even when she chose that apartment, a stern expression as he watched her go through the rooms and plan a future that didn't include him _more_. But the fact was, they weren't together then. From the moment Bruce learned about her pregnancy he wanted to be involved: tending to her needs, and always so interested in their unborn child. But Selina knew he had just lost Damian, and she knew _how_. And she also knew that, if not for that baby, if not for that unexpected blessing that insisted on growing inside her, she wouldn't even know who was under Batman's mask.

Entering the apartment, Selina thought about Henry's first days of life. It had been so strange, at first… her, a mother. She never thought that it would happen to her, motherhood: that was for ordinary, cute little girls, who had perfect lives. Growing up, Selina knew she was different, and was proud to be. She had no family, and she decided, long ago, that she didn't need one. And kids? She never considered having children a possibility. Children suffered, children were abandoned, children were beaten and lied to. Why put a child in this awful world? It just seemed selfish.

Henry changed that, though. She would never forget it, the feeling: when she realized she loved the thing inside her, that creature that had no name, no features, no voice. But she loved it, just the same. She loved the feeling of having him inside her, his movements like little butterflies that gently flew inside her belly. Then, as he grew, kicks and turns that were perfectly felt, strong enough to be felt through her skin, strong enough to remind her, time and time again, that she wasn't alone – and would never be again.

Getting to the master bedroom, she opened her closet. There, behind a fake wall, she hid the equipment and the spare outfit. Most of it she had taken to Wayne Manor, almost without noticing. She never _meant_ to do it, much like she had never meant to actually move in with Bruce. But after Henry got sick, so sick that he had almost died, she had trouble being alone. And Bruce… Bruce had just _changed_. Once Henry was born, once she saw him as a father, once she saw the way he cared about his son, the way he cared about _her_… it was hard not to love him. She tried, oh, God, how she tried…

And now, she missed him dearly. He had been away for barely a day, and she could hardly think about anything else but having him back home. She anxiously waited for him to hold her, to feel his gentle breath on her neck, to have him sheltering her on his chest. If he could just be there, just _hold_ her…

The doorbell rang.

"_What the hell?!"_

Selina wasn't expecting anyone – quite frankly, she was hoping to avoid people as much as she could.

Slowly, she walked to the door. Bruce had told her, when she moved, that it would be wise to place a camera outside, and monitors for her to check the door whenever someone rang the bell. Selina had found the idea preposterous, back then – she wasn't nearly as paranoid as he was. _"I'm trying to give this kid a normal life"_, she would tell him, _"how is an apartment full of cameras and monitors normal?"_ Now, however, she regretted the fact she didn't listen to him.

"Miss Kyle", she heard someone call, a woman's voice. "Please, Miss Kyle, can we talk for a moment?"

The woman was speaking loudly, probably unaware that Selina stood just a few inches away, on the other side of the closed door. Ringing the doorbell once again, the woman insisted:

"I saw you coming in, Miss Kyle. I know you're in there."

There were hints of impatience in the woman's voice, and she sounded already slightly aggravated. Not a bad sign, Selina considered: it probably meant that if the woman had means to force the door open, she would have done it already. The good news, in this case, were that the person outside was just an ordinary creature. Selina risked:

"Who's there?", she asked, making an effort to show her discontentment in just those few words.

There was a moment of pause before the woman answered. And then:

"My name is Vicky Vale, Miss Kyle. I work for the Gazzette."

The mention of that name brought a sudden coldness to Selina's stomach, her heart racing as she quickly turned the key on the lock and opened the door. Somewhere in her mind, a part of her screamed that she shouldn't do that, she shouldn't be so careless, she shouldn't open that door…

Selina ignored her own conscience.

Vicky Vale. The woman stood there, alone, right at her doorstep.

Although Selina had seen occasional pictures of Vale in the papers, she had to admit they didn't do the woman justice. To her surprise, Vicky was strikingly beautiful: remarkable red hair, tall, long legs that were quite visible as she wore a short skirt and high heels. Her eyes were cunning, and a smile came easily and quickly to her lips as she saw Selina – something she probably wanted to do in a while, Selina imagined.

"Selina Kyle", she spoke softly.

"That's my name." The admittance had been swift and, Selina recognized, foolish.

"It's a pleasure to meet you", Vicky declared. "I wanted to do this for a longtime, I assure you."

"Oh, I have no doubt", Selina said, unwilling to disguise the sarcasm in her tone. "You do seem terribly concerned about other people's lives… maybe that tells something about _you_, don't you think?"

The reporter merely chuckled, her eyes darting with sudden rage. "Are you alone?", she asked. "I would very much like to meet your little boy… Henry, right?"

"Don't", Selina harshly said, her voice a sharp, menacing sound. "Not my son. Don't you say his name, get it? You don't get to talk about him, not even _think_ about him."

Despite Selina's cold and threatening tone, Vicky merely smiled – the woman had guts, she would give Vale that, at least.

"They say he looks just like Bruce, you know?"

Selina's answer was just silence, though her gaze screamed her obvious fury. Vicky smirked:

"_That_ you won't deny, will you?"

"Get out of my doorstep", an enraged Selina whispered. Her hands trembled and her heart bounced furiously on her chest, her entire body struggling against the impulse of physically attacking the woman in front of her.

"Of course", Vicky agreed. "I wouldn't want to mess with Selina Kyle, the woman who spent most of her childhood in and out of orphanages, and her teen years in and out of reformatories… tell me, is it true that you stole an umbrella from Oswald Cobblepot?"

For a moment, shock washed over her like a cold bath, freezing her in that doorstep, no reactions whatsoever but surprise. That information, her records from her youth… they had been erased by A.R.G.U.S. people. That was why she joined the JLA, and they had promised, _Steve_ had promised…

The elevator door opened, revealing someone that stepped out of it in soft, quiet steps.

"Dick", Selina mumbled, recognizing the young man immediately.

Richard Grayson – former Robin, now the crime-fighter Nightwing and, most importantly, Bruce's adoptive son. His arrival only added to Selina's shock.

"Vicky", the young man had turned to the reporter, who now watched him in displeasure.

"Hello, Richard." She crossed her arms over her chest. "How's _daddy_ doing?"

Dick smiled in obvious contempt.

"Oh, Vicky… the role of wounded-former-lover doesn't suit you. Bruce got over you a long time ago… you should do the same."

"Is that right? Maybe it has something to do with the many allegedly children he seems to conceive… you would think someone like him would be more _careful_, but no…"

Selina hissed:

"You arrogant, presumptuous, dumb b…"

"Selina", Dick cut her, "calm down. No need for you to get upset… Vicky here was just leaving, weren't you, Vicky?"

"I don't see why."

"Maybe because one of the neighbors called the police? He saw a red-hair woman forcing the doors in one apartment."

Vicky's face was taken by a sudden flush, turning as reddish as her fiery locks. "That's a lie, Grayson, and you know it!"

"I know nothing. You can discuss the matter with the cops."

She raised a finger almost to his face, pointing it at him as she spoke furiously:

"You shouldn't have done that." Turning to Selina, she warned. "Till we meet again, Miss Kyle."

Selina didn't answer, merely returning Vicky's cold look. She watched the journalist turn her back on them and enter the elevator, leaving as quickly as possible. When she figured Vale couldn't listen to them anymore, she said:

"Thanks, Dick. I… I don't know how this whole thing could have ended if you didn't… _intervene_."

"I do", he said, assuming a graver a tone. "Badly, that's how."

As he entered the apartment, she closed the door and followed him to the living room.

"You're right", she admitted. "I wasn't ready for this."

"Nobody was, Selina. But you", he briefly pointed at her, then seating on an armchair, "you risk too much. I couldn't believe it when Alfred called me…"

"Alfred…" She smiled, thinking about the butler. He seemed worried when she left, and no doubt he had asked Dick to keep an eye on her that afternoon. And thank the gods he had.

"You can't do this, Selina. Things are complicated right now, Bruce is not here… please, be careful."

"What' you saying? That I shouldn't leave the house, that I'm a prisoner in Wayne Manor…?"

"Of course not. Don't be so dramatic." He seemed slightly annoyed.

She sighed.

"This is too much, Dick", she admitted.

He didn't answer her – Selina imagined that, maybe, it was because he just couldn't debate her confession.


	6. Interlude: Fear Not

The room is dark, still untouched by the first lights of dawn that are starting to show in the horizon. Here the windows are protected, hidden by heavy curtains, keeping all the intrusive disturbances outside. Not only the windows, but everything in this room is planned to shelter, protect; all meant to be secure, safe.

To keep him safe.

Bruce silently watches from the door, the shadow of his impressive figure discernible in his Batman's uniform shapes. It was unusual for him to be dressed like that in those circumstances - inside the mansion, out of the cave. He had to do it, though; acted in an impulse, and went up in cape and cowl, walking the corridors of Bruce Wayne's home as Batman. He had to. He was in a mission.

A few steps inside the dark room, and he can finally see his face: the peaceful, undefiled face. Immaculate features, of soft and tender skin. Perfectly shaped lips and nose, closed eyelids that hid the deep blue color of those eyes, thin dark hair, a small, flawless hand closed in a fist, the diminutive thumb placed inside the little mouth, the small finger sucked in vigorous intent. His breathing was steady, compassed, his body relaxed and free of any tension. Unruffled, peaceful child... and yet, so obviously vulnerable.

The thought always caused Bruce to feel uneasy, his heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of any harm coming to his son - his baby son, the boy that slept in his crib, sheltered and protected.

But outside... Outside, there was the world; a harsh, hard, violent world.

Reaching for the child, he carefully placed his hands under him, gently lifting the boy out of his comfortable bed. The baby sighed, mumbling in his sleep, trembling slightly as he was pulled out of his covers, out of the warmth of his crib.

"Sorry, son", Bruce whispered as he brought the small child closer to his chest, sheltering his infant son on his body. The baby shifted, curling against his father's massive thorax, his eyes opening for a second, narrow and sleepy eyes, glancing at Bruce as if somewhat intrigued. It didn't last, though; his eyelids fluttered, fighting the sleepiness for a moment, but surrendered to it as his father rocked him gently: "It's all right, Henry... It's all right..."

However, even as he spoke those words, he felt a growing anxiety.

He looked at the boy, examining his childish features, admiring the little creature in his arms: he was a living thing, a small, and yet complete, different person. It startled Bruce how much his son developed every day, how he grew up into a being that had his own will and needs, his own personality and character. His Henry. It was obvious that there was so much of Selina and himself in the boy, it was tangible, visible in his physical features. How he had his mother's eyes and nose, and his father's mouth and chin; his dad's hands, his mom's hair. He was a perfect, elegant combination of his parents traits, in so many ways a smaller, more gracious version of both...

And yet, he was also so special and unique. So himself, so singular in his own qualities and his own behavior, in his looks that Bruce never seemed to grow tired of watching.

He was always so proud of his son. Always so amazed to realize that, somehow, he was responsible for the existence of this other person, this person that was also part of him.

And part of Selina.

He embraced the baby with care, but intensely; felt Henry's breath deepening, the child grasping his father's cape in his small, and yet strong hands. Yes, his son was so often showing how capable, smart, healthy he was. Henry always looked fine, always seemed to be doing great. Happy. Happy and well cared.

Despite all that, Bruce now held his son with only one thought in mind:

Fragile. He held his son and knew; knew how frail and defenseless he looked, how small and vulnerable, and this thought... it filled him with fear.

"Bruce?"

He turned to face her: Selina, standing in the entrance of the bedroom, an inquisitive expression as she observed him.

"I didn't know you were back from Seattle already..." She approached him in quiet, subtle steps, no sounds but the gentle rustle of her nightgown. There was a kind, placid smile in her lips, one Bruce knew to belong only to that woman right there: Selina as a mother, Selina as the ordinary woman; not the Catwoman, not the burglar or the vigilante, but the genuine woman underneath. Placing one hand over his arm, and leaning to kiss the child's forehead, she seemed to Bruce all but the thief he so many times chased over rooftops. Through the years, their relationship evolved in an unlikely direction, and yet, one he had come to desire and cherish with all his heart.

"Just arrived", he explained in a whisper.

"Are you okay?", she asked, her smile leaving to give place to a flash of worry in her eyes. "You never wear the uniform upstairs..."

"Sorry", he apologized.

She raised a hand to his face, to that small portion of skin that was visible under the heavy, dark cowl:

"I missed you."

"I'm sorry", he insisted. "I'm so sorry about the whole Gazette thing, Selina. I know how much you dreaded the idea of having your name out there, and Henry's…"

"Shush." She interrupted him by placing a finger over his lips, her warm skin against his dry, cold mouth. "Please. So much has happened, and in so few hours… But let's not talk about this… not right now."

Caressing Henry's head, she said:

"How about you place this little guy back into his crib… and we go to _our_ bed?"

He nodded in agreement:

"Of course." Lowering his gaze to the child in his arms, he asked:

"Would you give me a moment? I just want to make sure he's…" He hesitated.

"He's fine, Bruce."

"I know."

Selina smiled again, though there was also a hint of concern in her features, her emerald eyes watching her son and his father in slight uneasiness. "Okay", she said, "I'll wait for you."

Bruce held Henry close as he watched Selina leave the room, waiting until he finally heard her reaching the master bedroom's door, closing it behind her. Then, he walked to the rocking chair that stood in a corner of Henry's nursery, the old piece of furniture that had once belonged to his own childhood bedroom. He sat quietly, aware of how peculiar that vision probably was: Batman sat on a rocking chair, a child on his arms, soothing a baby.

There was no mistake, though: he was still Batman, and he was on a mission. He didn't lie to Selina when he told her he had just arrived from Seattle, as he had not faked his concerns about the Gazette episode. He hadn't been completely honest, however – his presence there, in their child's bedroom, was no accident, and it wasn't just about how much he had missed his little boy.

It was about that growing feeling he had; the increasing sensation of danger, the idea that was constantly in the back of his mind, that shadow:

There was something wrong with his son.

He allowed Henry to rest on his left arm, the boy's head supported on the curve of his elbow, his small body in contact with Bruce's chest armor. When awake, Henry behaved and looked like a little boy, walking in confident steps and speaking his mind, often looking like an older child. Now, deeply asleep, he was no more than that: a baby. He didn't look a day older than his almost-two-years-old self.

Using his right hand, Bruce took from his utility belt a small metal box. He opened it by pressing a small button, revealing half a dozen cotton swabs. They were actually special swabs, made with high absorption material and able to keep any organic tissue preserved for at least twelve hours. All and all, the perfect kit to collect human DNA.

Taking one of the swabs, Bruce examined it for a moment, wondering if he was about to do the right thing. He felt surprisingly bad about it – not the act in itself, but the secret. Why, he wondered, hadn't he been able to tell Selina about his suspicions? Or about the connections he saw between the hospital's explosion in Seattle and what had happened to their child, over a year ago? Why? Why couldn't he just _tell_ her…?

In his sleep, Henry mumbled; he shifted in his father's arms once again, his tiny leg brushing against Bruce's stomach, a smile on his lips as he moved his head from one side to the other. Smiles while dreaming… what would the child dream about?, Bruce wondered. Henry was such a happy boy, so joyful, so smart, so fun to be around. This perfect little guy, who would wrap his arms around Bruce's neck, rest his head on his father's shoulder and be so quiet, so peaceful, so comfortable there. _Daddy_, he would whisper, sometimes, his steady breath warming Bruce's neck. That tiny creature, that meant everything for him.

And he knew Selina felt the same, of course. He also knew that the mere thought of losing Henry seemed too much for him to bear – and he couldn't do that to _her_. He couldn't be the one to tell her, he couldn't be the one that would ruin her happiness, the one to stain the perfection of her life as a mother. Tell her that there was something _wrong_, that Henry might be _sick_, or…

He took a deep breath, putting away all those thoughts. He couldn't let them interfere; he couldn't allow his fears to be in the way of the facts. And there was one indisputable fact: if there was something wrong with Henry, he would find out.

And he would _fix it_.

Bruce gently moved his left arm, using that hand to touch Henry's chin and gently pull it down, slightly opening the boy's mouth. Then, a swab in his right hand, he carefully introduced it inside the child's mouth, using it to delicately scratch the inner side of the boy's cheek. That took seconds, and he then placed the cotton swab inside a small plastic bag, returning it to the metal box he had removed from his belt. That would keep the material fresh for several hours, and he would be able to work on that later, perhaps by nightfall.

Now, however, he just wanted to forget about it.

Kissing Henry, he returned the boy to his crib. The baby didn't even flinch: his only gesture was to return his thumb to his little mouth. Bruce caressed the boy's head kindly, whispering softly:

"Good night, son. See you tomorrow."

And that, at least for now, was the truth.


End file.
